


Second Verse

by caswell



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: M/M, Michael Mell Has ADHD, Post-Canon, also obviously it's not THE squip but there's no tag for michael's squip bc he. doesnt have one. ya, squipped!michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-18 13:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17581427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caswell/pseuds/caswell
Summary: The gap between Michael and Jeremy is unbearable, not because of the hurt, but because there are some experiences that just can't be empathized with. Unfortunately, Michael is willing to do even the stupidest of things to reconnect: he'll get a SQUIP.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HEY...... this fic was meant to be like 15k words and it's only. 9k. you know how it is  
> Also, you may recognize the part with Jeremy by the doorway from my Tumblr/my fic entitled Slice of Life. I decided the scene was a good fit for this fic, so I rewrote it to be from Michael's point of view. Call me lazy, but that's actually a common exercise in creative writing classes, so...  
> ALSO, also, mild tw for emetophobia in this first chapter. If vomiting bothers you, just skip from “Are you o-” to “No explanation needed.”  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

While it may look like he’s is only focusing on his current sketchbook doodle- Mulder from the X-Files shouting “SCULLY HOLY FUCK”- Michael is very much tuned in to the goings-on of the classroom. Currently, his math teacher, Ms. Campbell, is talking about secants and cosecants, a step up from the SOHCAHTOA of his youth. The girl to his left is twisting her bright red hair with one finger. Across the room, Rich rests his head in one cupped hand, and, in front of him, Jeremy is looking warily ahead, back as straight as a ruler. ...Not that Michael’s  _ looking  _ at Jeremy. 

Alright, so he’s _kinda_ looking at Jeremy. He’s finally back- he has been for three months, really, but it still feels like finally- and things are going… alright? He’s still a little hurt, sure, but it’s not that bad. If he can squish all his bad feelings down into that shirt, that bathroom, that holiday, he can ignore the residual pain. What’s important is that Jeremy is back, and-

“I’ve gotta go!”

Michael raises his eyebrows and straightens up as Jeremy shoots up from his chair, eyes wide. There are some suppressed snickers from the back of the classroom, but Rich shoots the perpetrators a nasty look, and they quiet down again.

Meanwhile, Jeremy is halfway out the door, hands tapping rapidly against his thighs. Michael worries his lip, watching his back as he leaves; he’s wearing that Eminem shirt again, which signifies a Bad Day.

In the beginning, there weren’t really Bad Days. Jeremy was fine in the hospital, if a bit weak from not moving for approximately two weeks. He managed to go back to school the next week- after, of course, having about a trillion scans and labs done. They’d found the SQUIP, a microchip situated where his medulla oblongata meets his pons, but it was apparently too great of a risk to remove it when he was functioning just fine with it in.

‘Just fine’, of course, only lasted a few weeks. Now things are like this:

“I’m gonna be right back,” Michael says, and stands up, not bothering to grab his bag; he probably won’t be back before the end of the class period, but he’s not thinking about that right now. He walks as fast as he can without running (he’s not in the mood to get detention) and catches up to Jeremy right as he enters the bathroom two doors down.

Jeremy leans- rather, falls- against the cream-colored tiles of the wall and sinks down into a sitting position, knees tucked up to his chest. His wide, blue eyes are unblinking, and they only move from the floor to Michael when he says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jeremy mumbles. He wraps two shaking arms around his legs and looks back at the ground. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Michael says, and sits down next to him. “Are you o-”

Michael nearly gets hit in the face as Jeremy bolts, Converse tap-tapping on the linoleum for a few seconds before he reaches the nearest open stall. A few seconds later, a retching noise echoes through the bathroom, and Michael cringes. “Are you okay in there?” he calls, finishing his sentence. When Jeremy is silent, Michael stands up and walks over to the place where he disappeared, peeking in.

Jeremy rests, eyes closed, against the unflushed toilet. He sighs, then cracks one eye open. “Sorry.”

“I told you, you don't have to apologize. Just, ah… you should flush that.”

“Oh.” Jeremy reaches out a limp hand to pull the handle on the toilet. “I, um…”

“No explanation needed,” Michael says. “Are you going to be alright? I know I’ve asked you, like, three times in the past minute, but I’m worried about you, duder.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” Jeremy says, scratching at one wrist with low-filed nails. (Michael bites his tongue; now’s not the time to nag Jeremy about unhealthy habits.) “Just go back to class, alright?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I  _ said,  _ go back to class.” Jeremy’s words are a command, but his voice doesn’t carry the tone; it’s pithy, weak. 

Still, Michael obeys, not wanting to aggravate Jeremy any more; if his absence makes him feel better, then absent he’ll be. “Alright, fine. Just… tell me if you need me, okay?”

“Right.”

 

Some weeks, there are more bad days than good days. This is one of those weeks.

The day after the bathroom debacle, Michael goes over to Jeremy’s house after school. He’s lucky that he’s been granted that permission, a return to normalcy, even though it doesn’t feel quite the same as before. There’s the fact that Jeremy really hurt him, of course, that tied them down in the beginning, but now, the bigger problem is Jeremy’s mental health.

“How long have you been standing there?” Michael asks as he approaches the doorway to Jeremy’s room. He’d had to let himself in with the spare key that the Heeres keep beneath a stone in their neglected garden; Jeremy never answered the door.

Jeremy, statue-like in the way he leans, unmoving, against the doorframe, doesn’t respond at first.

Michael tries again, louder this time. “Jeremy? How long have you been standing there?”

Jeremy’s eyes widen slightly, and he looks up at Michael; something must have clicked in his head. “I dunno,” he says, voice hushed, and sighs. 

Something is very wrong here. It hits Michael in the pit of his stomach, and he takes a step forward, reaching out to place a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy flinches away, and Michael berates himself internally- of course the guy doesn’t want to be touched; he’s probably freaking out inside. “Shit, sorry,” he says. “What can I do for you? I hate seeing you like this, man. It’s freaky.”

With no emotion in his voice, Jeremy answers, “I don’t know. Wait, why are you here?”

“You invited me over, remember? At lunch,” Michael says. “You asked if I wanted to come over after school, and I said yes. So… here I am.” He sticks his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, looking away. Should he not have come?

Jeremy just hums, which Michael takes as a good sign, maybe. It’s a sign, anyway.

There’s silence, then, for a long minute, before Michael pipes up again. “You should lie down or something,” he says, and rocks back and forth on his heels. “I really don’t mind if you don’t wanna, like, play video games or something. I’m just worried about you, man.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jeremy says, but Michael doesn’t buy it in the slightest. 

“I don’t think you’re fine, though,” he says. “Can you at least try to lie down?” He longs to hug him, to cheer him up, but it looks like that’s not what he wants- or needs- right now.

Jeremy is quiet for a few moments before he answers, “I don’t know if I can move.” It’s true- he hasn’t moved an inch, not even to fidget; not that Michael has noticed, at least. “...I don't know. I think I need help.”

Michael reaches out his hand again, unable to help himself; luckily, Jeremy accepts the touch this time. “I know I'm not the best with words or anything, but I've got you, okay? I'll carry you if I need to.” Hell, he  _ wants  _ to; carrying his crush bridal style would be super rad, although, under the present circumstances, maybe not so much. Still…

“Yeah, I sure hope it won't come to that. I don't know what to do, though.” That's the fourth time Jeremy has said ‘I don't know’ in as many minutes; Michael's been counting. Along with ‘I guess’, it's one of Jeremy's most-used phrases when he's feeling like shit, which, lately, seems to be all the time.

A thought occurs to Michael, then, an idea sprouting in the un-weeded garden of his brain. “I'm going to try something now, alright?” he asks, and waits. After a few seconds, Jeremy nods, and Michael gently tugs his hand out from where it's wedged into his armpit. 

Jeremy twitches, and for a second, Michael is sure he'll put up a fight, but if he hates it, he doesn't say anything.

“C'mon,” Michael says, and, as painlessly as possible, pulls him into the bedroom. A spark of hope lights in his chest as Jeremy takes a step forward; sure, he has no other choice, but that's progress. “Hey, that’s the spirit!”  
“I’m not doing anything,” Jeremy says, barely audible.

“Of course you are! Don’t downplay it. It’s a bad habit.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“And don’t apologize so much, either.” Before Jeremy can respond with another apology, like Michael knows he will, he pulls him a second step forward. Jeremy almost trips over his feet, but he manages to follow, and Michael smiles.

After a few more steps, the two of them reach the bed, and Jeremy flops onto the space-print blankets. “That was ridiculous,” he mutters.

“No thank you, huh?” Michael asks as he lies down beside Jeremy, although he’s not really offended.

Jeremy slowly turns his head to look at Michael. “Oh. Yeah, thanks, man. I just hate how I'm like this.”

Michael hums to himself, deliberating on what to say next. It’s times like these when he desperately wants to tell Jeremy he loves him, because he deserves to hear it; Christine took a week and a half to decide that she didn’t really want to date Jeremy, at least not now, so the guy was, yet again, alone. He can’t just drop that bombshell, though. What if it ruins everything? Instead, he says, “Well, I’m here for ya, Jer. Remember that, okay?”

Jeremy sticks out a pinkie finger and asks, “Pinkie promise?”

Michael’s smile comes back a little wider as he wraps his own finger around Jeremy’s. “Yeah, man. Pinkie promise,” he says.

 

Jeremy flinches a lot. He can’t hear the word ‘chill’ without going pale. When he learned about electroconvulsive therapy in AP Psychology, Michael got a panicked text from him and rushed to where he was cowering in the upstairs bathroom by the gym.

Things are not going well. This needs to change. Michael, of course, will change it, because that’s what he does.

“How many bad days have you had in the past week?” he asks one evening as he watches Jeremy pick at his veggie pizza. Jeremy reacts to his depression by not eating, and Michael reacts to his anxiety by overeating; they’re two halves of a mentally dysfunctional pair. 

Jeremy sets the slice down and thinks on it for a moment or two. “Ffffive? Yeah, five,” he says. “Seven, if you wanna get technical, but two of them were more mediocre than bad.”

Michael’s heart falls, and he sighs, not in the dreamy way that he used to, but more morose.  “Dude, not to show vulnerability, but I’m worried sick about you. You should see a therapist.”

“A therapist wouldn’t understand,” Jeremy says. “Are you kidding me? If I tried to talk about the SQUIP, they’d lock me up in, like, two seconds.”

Michael shrugs, conceding the point. “Okay, then you should talk to me.”

“You wouldn’t understand, either.” Jeremy looks down at his plate, then back up at Michael. “Sorry, man. You just wouldn’t.”

“Try me!” Michael says, desperation pitching up his voice. “I can help.”

“It’s just… you wouldn’t get it unless you’ve had a SQUIP.” Jeremy sighs. “A-and, no offense, Mike, but you’re not the most empathetic person on Earth.”

Michael scoffs, mock-offended… sort of. Okay, so maybe that’s true, but he just has a hard time relating to other people; you can’t blame him  _ that  _ much. Still, the reminder stings a little. “I guess you’re right,” he admits, scratching at his arm. How long has he been hurting Jeremy with all of his bullshit? He deserves someone who can understand him more. He deserves someone who-

Michael shakes his head, dispelling the thoughts. Ever since Jeremy disposed of him while he was SQUIPped, he’s been having them; even now that they’re together again, they crop up sometimes.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Jeremy says. “Really. I still love you a whole lot, it’s just… y’know.”

“No, I know.” Michael shrugs. “I’ll work on it. And I’ll still be here for you, okay? Even if I’m not the best at comforting you.”

But he needs to get better. Things need to be fixed, and they need to be fixed right away. Michael can’t stand seeing him like this, and it seems like there’s only one way he’ll ever be able to understand what Jeremy needs.

He needs to get a SQUIP.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, while writing this chapter: This seems sorta familiar.... (remembers Holding Onto Our Pride) oh yeah.  
> I love writing SQUIPping scenes, apparently. Don't worry, though; this takes a very different path.  
> Very mild TW for homophobic slur mentions.

Okay, so maybe that’s a stupid idea. In fact, it’s the stupidest idea Michael’s had in his life yet, and he’s fully aware of that. But, if there’s anyone who’s willing to do stupid shit for Jeremy Heere’s sake, it’s him. To ease Jeremy’s state of mind, to be a good friend- those are more important than most things in life, unlike grades and fitting in and conforming to the status quo. So that’s why Michael, armed with two brain cells, sits down at his computer desk and starts to construct a plan.

The plan can be split into three major parts: 1. procure the SQUIP; 2. experience the SQUIP; 3. get rid of the SQUIP. Part three would be the easiest; he still has leftover Mountain Dew Red, since he bought quite a bit in the name of safety. Part two, eh, that would suck, but he would get through it. It’s part one that would bring up the most logistical problems.

As he rests his head in one hand, tapping the uncapped pen against his paper and scattering small black dots across the page, Michael looks around his small basement bedroom. His eyes fall on the shelf that stretches from one end of the wall behind his bed to the other; it’s adorned with anime figurines and stacks of CDs, and is one of the only parts of his room that he keeps in pristine condition. If he sold some merch from stuff he no longer cared about…

Michael lugs in a large cardboard box, holding it against his hip like a girl in a period drama, and sets it on his bed. He scans the shelf with analytical eyes; he’s not going to get rid of his CDs, and they’re pretty worthless anyway, but he can probably ditch the Fullmetal Alchemist figures his moms bought him for Christmas in 2012. He sets them gently in the box, careful not to scrape or dirty them.

Along with his FMA figures, the box soon contains a Hatsune Miku statuette, some various anime keychains, and a pile of manga. “I’m beginning to think that Jeremy was right when he called me a weeb,” Michael mutters, staring down at the embarrassing collection. Still, he might manage to make some cash off of it.

An hour and a half later, and Michael’s got all of his old anime stuff on eBay; it would have taken him less time, but he got sucked down a Wikipedia rabbit hole after seeing a print of an enormous quasar on the front page. Alongside what he’s saved up, it doesn’t quite add up to $400, but that’s alright; his moms are pushovers, so he can always get a little bit of cash from them. That’s the plan, at least.

 

Of course, _of course,_ his mom chooses the perfect time to put up a fight.

“Ma _má,”_ Michael wails, being as annoying as humanly possible, “I really need it! For real! And it’s only fifty bucks!”

“What do you need it for, exactly?” Michael’s mom asks as she stirs the pot of spaghetti she’s toiling over. “Don’t tell me you’re going to spend it all on Magic cards again.”

“I won’t,” Michael says. “Plus, the card I want is worth way more than fifty dollars.”

“God, you really choose the most expensive hobbies, huh?” Michael’s mother sighs. “So, what is it, then, if it isn’t cards?”

“It’s, uh… uh…” Michael looks around, eyes flitting across the kitchen counters for something he could use in his pitiful attempt at a lie. “A new blender, for Mom’s birthday. Since she likes smoothies so much, y’know?” It’s half-assed, but not entirely inaccurate; his mom loves smoothies, especially when she’s one of her various health kicks, but her birthday is three months away.

Still, Michael’s other mom takes the bait. She hums, considering it, then says, “I suppose. I should have that much in my purse; you can go grab it yourself. And don’t take any more than fifty!”

“I won’t,” Michael says, which is true; he may be kind of a stoner, but some rules are there for a reason. As he turns away from his mother and the stove, he does a fist pump. Part 1.2, done; now for part 1.3.

 

“‘Sup, Mom.” Michael’s greeting is less of a question than a statement, and he doesn’t particularly expect his mother to respond.

As he predicted, his mother responds not with a real answer but with a grunt, not taking her eyes away from the screen of her computer. Michael peers at it- looks like she’s making a PowerPoint for her Introduction to Sociology class, which he’s always wanted to take, if only to witness how good or bad his mom is at teaching.

“Anyway, I was wondering- could I borrow, say, twenty bucks?” Feigning sheepishness, he clasps his hands behind his back and rocks back and forth on his heels. “It’s for Mamá.”

“And what does she need it for?” his mother asks, still typing.

“I was thinking I could, um, make her something for her birthday, but I need the supplies.” That’s a little better of a lie- he’s a creative person, which is well known among his friends and family, and that mom’s birthday only a month and four days away.

After a moment of considering, Michael’s mother acquiesces, shrugging. “Money’s on my nightstand. Spend it wisely, and I want the change.”

 

“You’ve been acting super shady, man. What’s up?”

Michael’s brow furrows, and he looks over at Jeremy, who’s paused Super Smash Bros. in the middle of a fight- Kirby vs. Mr Game and Watch. God, why does he have to lie so much just to get a SQUIP? What a pain in the ass. “I’m fine,” he says, scratching his arm. “Not shady at all. What’re you talking about?”

Jeremy leans back against his bean bag. “I don’t know. You seem kinda nervous.”

It’s true- Michael _is_ nervous. Now that he’s got all his plans in place, things are finally feeling real. He’s actually going to get a SQUIP, like the huge dumbass he is. He’s going to do it tonight, actually- he was going to do it right after school, but Jeremy invited him over, and who was he to say no to his best friend/crush?

Jeremy nudges Michael and looks at him expectantly. “Bruhddy?”

“Oh, right,” Michael says, and shakes his head to clear it. “Um, no, I guess I’m a little sick, but that’s it.” He sniffles for emphasis, then coughs. It’s not very convincing.

“Eugh. Don’t give me a cold, I’ve got a math test tomorrow,” Jeremy says. He edges away from Michael.

“What, did you think I was gonna kiss you or something? Maybe lick your toothbrush?” Michael rolls his eyes. “Ch- uh- cool out, dude. You’re acting crazy.”

Jeremy twitches, then forces a laugh, sounding like a shonen anime protagonist with severe depression. “Well, I _am_ crazy.”

This is going to get better. Michael has to believe that it’ll get better.

Things will be better once he gets a SQUIP.

 

The orange Payless ShoeSource glares down at Michael, and he stares back up, doing his best not to wilt beneath it. It’s all about to start. He makes a move to step inside, but something occurs to him: what if the (admittedly kinda scary) stock boy’s SQUIP- if he had one- was connected to Jeremy’s network? What if it deactivated, and he wasn’t selling SQUIPs anymore because he’d realized how evil they are? Better for the world at large, yes, but not great for his little plan.

“No loitering,” says a familiar voice, and Michael looks up to see the scary stock boy staring at him with a frown. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, um…” Michael fiddles with the $401 that’s stashed safely in the pocket of his hoodie. “Are you still selling the, y’know…”

The stock boy nods and beckons Michael inside, leading him behind the counter and into a back room, which Michael should probably consider himself privileged to be in. “Wait a second. I know you, don’t I?” the stock boy asks. “Came in here a few months ago with your friend, that skinny kid? He get into Harvard yet?”

“Uh… I… don’t know, we’re only juniors,” Michael says, which isn’t technically a lie, since they _are_ juniors. “It’s working out really well for him, though, so I kinda wanted one for myself.”

The stock boy grins. “Well, you made the right choice, coming to me. Always good to make a sale.” He waggles his fingers. “You gonna give me the money or not?”

“Oh, right.” Michael digs the cash (besides the dollar for Mountain Dew) out of his hoodie’s pocket and hands it to the stock boy, who tucks it in the back pocket of his jeans. He scans the shelves, filled top to bottom with shoeboxes; one of them must contain a pile of SQUIPs. The fact that something so powerful could be hidden away in a place like this gives him the shivers.

Sure enough, the stock boy kneels down in front of a shelf and selects a box of women’s running shoes, pulling out out and opening it for Michael to see. Nestled at the bottom are about ten grey pill capsules, far heavier than they really weigh; Michael’s stomach twists as he picks one up. “I’m not going to give you the spiel again,” the stock boy says, “but remember: all sales final.”

“Right,” Michael replies weakly, and clenches his fist around the SQUIP. “Thanks. Have a great day.” His voice is numb, affect flat; he makes no noise as he walks past the stock boy and out of the store.

Michael narrows his eyes against the bright backlight of the vending machine when he reaches it, licking his lips. He’s not certain, but he’s pretty sure this might be the beginning of a panic attack, which is fabulous, really. Absolutely stellar. Will he be reduced to crying in a public bathroom before he even takes the SQUIP? Still, he manages to deposit the money and type in the number for some Mountain Dew, and the bottle falls to the bottom with a _clunk._

Soda in tow, Michael stalks over to the food court, keeping his head low; if someone were to talk to him, he’s pretty sure he would explode. Maybe this is a bad idea after all. Maybe it wouldn’t even help Jeremy; it might just hurt himself. Maybe Jeremy would be mad. Maybe-

And then Jeremy’s smile appears in his mind’s eye. His eyes used to be full of warmth, even on bad days; his laugh was genuine. It dawns on Michael, then, that he would do anything to get that back.

And so, he takes it.

...Nothing happens at first. He was expecting that; it was the same way with Jeremy, so whatever. There’s even that faint minty taste. What had Jeremy done to activate it, though? Michael had left to go get his Crystal Pepsi before he could see, and that was one of the details Jeremy had left out when he was retelling everything that happened with the SQUIP. He could text him, but that would only make him seem more shady, so… no.

“May as well test it,” Michael mutters, and looks around the food court. He knows Rich works at the Pizza Hut, and, hypothetically, he could go over there and flirt with him, but everything in him tells him that’s a recipe for disaster. Technically, he’s friends- or at least friendly acquaintances- with Rich, but five months ago, that act would’ve gotten him hate crimed; Rich would’ve punched him in the face or something, called him a queer...

Michael takes a deep breath in, then out. No, he and Rich are fine now; for God’s sake, Rich is bi himself, and it’s not as if Michael isn’t good-looking, so maybe he would take it as a compliment. Shoving his slow-burn panic attack aside, Michael stands up from the table and slowly makes his way over to the Pizza Hut, half-praying that Rich wouldn’t be on duty. But no, no, there he is, in all his burn-marked glory.

Rich looks up and smiles as Michael approaches, not bothering to hide the gap in his front teeth. “Michael!” he calls. “What can I do for ya? We’ve got this really good new food, it’s called ‘pizza’.” He snickers at his own joke, even though, to Michael’s already aggravated ears, it’s not that funny.

Michael leans against the counter in front of the register and clears his throat. “Actually, Rich, I’d kinda like to try-”

The next thing Michael knows, he’s falling, shrieking as he goes; his muscles are paralyzed, perhaps literally, and every molecule of his head shrieks in pain. His knees hit the floor with a _thunk,_ which will leave bruises, and he falls forward onto his hands a moment later. He’s so consumed by the burning that he barely registers the voice that booms in his head:

**Target male: inaccessible.**

“Yo, what the hell?” Rich asks, leaning over the counter. Michael simply moans in response.

**Calibration in progress. Please excuse some mild discomfort.**

Michael hisses out a breath, shaking, but doesn’t say anything; he can’t let Rich know he’s been SQUIPped. He’s acutely aware of everyone in the food court staring at him, having a fit on the floor, and it’s not a great feeling, but it’s one he’s used to.

**Calibration complete. Access procedure initiated.**

And then things stop. Michael opens his eyes, which he hadn’t realized he’d squeezed shut, and takes a deep breath. “Uh, I’m fine,” he assures Rich, who’s still staring at him with wide eyes. “I just-”

**Discomfort level may increase.**

Bile rises in the back of Michael’s throat as the pain flares up again, and he chokes it down with a sharp swallow that just makes his head hurt even more. Does this happen to everyone? Did it happen to Rich? Good God, it must’ve happened to Jeremy.

**Accessing: neural memory. Accessing: muscle memory. Access procedure: complete.**

The pain eases, slowly this time, although Michael isn’t holding his breath- what if it comes back? He opens his eyes again and tries to breathe steadily as he rises to his feet. He opens his mouth to apologize to Rich and blow it off on, say, an epileptic seizure or something, when he notices the flickering image of a man in his peripheral vision.

 **Michael Mell… Welcome to your Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor,** the man says. **Your SQUIP.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly major trigger warning for anti-ADHD ableism? If you've got ADHD/ADD and you're reading this: I love you. Sincerely, an autistic bastard woman.

_...You look like Jeff Mangum,  _ Michael mind-says, examining the man’s beard and the acoustic guitar slung over one shoulder. He knows well enough to not talk to the SQUIP out loud; he figures he should consider himself gifted in that respect, since Rich and Jeremy and every other poor sucker out there had to learn it themselves.

**My default mode,** the man- the SQUIP, that is- explains.  **You can also set me for “Weird Al” Yankovic, Richard Garfield, or Sexy Anime Male.**

Michael grimaces at the nipple-less catboy that stands in front of him. Seriously, is he ever going to be able to live down his anime phase?  _ Jeff’s fine,  _ he says to the SQUIP, and, to Rich, “Sorry, man. Um, I’m epileptic, did Jeremy tell you?” It’s probably not great, morally, to lie about being epileptic, but Jeremy would forgive him.

**I see you’re already accustomed to lying. Good.**

_ Shut it. _

“Uh, that’s fine,” Rich says, bewildered. “Should I call an ambulance?”

Michael shakes his head. “I’m fiiiine.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the SQUIP tap at its- his?- watch. “Um, I should get going, though. My moms are gonna wanna take care of me.”

Five months ago, the mention of his lesbian moms would have gotten him an ass kicking, but Rich takes it in stride. “Yeah, man, well… I gotta get back to work anyway, so, see ya.” Turning back to the next person in line, he says, “Sorry about that. How can I help you?”

**Good job. But next time, try not to make such a big scene,** the SQUIP says.

_ I wouldn’t have had to if your little ‘access procedure’ didn’t feel like fire ants biting my brain,  _ Michael replies, sticking his hands in his pockets. 

**We're going to have to do something about that hoodie. There's an Urban Outfitters here-**

Michael can't help but shake his head; if anyone notices, well, it's not the most embarrassing thing that's happened tonight.  _ I'm not getting rid of my hoodie. _

**Don't you want to be cool?** the SQUIP asks, crossing its arms as its image walks slightly ahead of him.  **Isn't that what you got me for?**

_ Ye- um- well- no,  _ Michael says, scrambling for a lie.  _ I got you so you could help me with homework.  _

**You don't want anything more?** The SQUIP's voice drips with temptation, which Michael is having none of.  **Come on, Michael. You spent a lot of money on me, right? What more use am I than, say, a tutor?**

_ I don't want to be cool,  _ Michael says, walking out of the food court. Good riddance.  _ I just want to make it into, uh… Brown. _

**Very well. Then let's get home and study.**

 

It's already 9 P.M. by the time Michael gets home, but he still drags his backpack into his room and tosses it onto his bed. 

**I accessed your memory while I was installing,** the SQUIP says, image flickering to life as Michael gets out his pencils and notebook.  **You're working on geometry proofs.** It's not a question, but a statement. The SQUIP, Michael realizes, knows everything.

_ Yep,  _ he says idly, and takes out the worksheet his teacher had assigned.  _ Okay, so- _

**One, given. Two, definition of congruent segment. Three…**

Michael almost asks the SQUIP to slow down, but he finds that his hands are moving lightning-fast- is this what it meant when it mentioned muscle memory? Because he certainly isn’t doing this on his own. In less than a minute, the page is done, and Michael shakes out his cramped hand.  _ You could ask before doing that next time. _

**I could, but you would say no, and then we would have to waste time waiting for your human hands to catch up.**

_ Alright, jeez,  _ Michael says, and flops back against his bed. For the first time, he’s not ending homework with a backache from hunching over paper- if he bothers to do it in the first place. Hey, if nothing else, his grades will improve from this little experiment. And the SQUIP doesn’t seem that bad so far; Michael hesitates to say that Jeremy is overreacting, because he’s probably not, but aside from being a little strict, the SQUIP is-

**Pretty cool, right?** The SQUIP crosses one leg over the other and eyes Michael’s backpack.  **Now, onto English.**

 

One benefit of Jeremy being  _ cool  _ now is that the SQUIP lets Michael hang out with him. If he’d been the one to get SQUIPped in the first place, and he hadn’t been allowed to hang out with Jeremy, he probably would’ve spontaneously combusted.

**At least you have cool friends,** the SQUIP notes one day as he walks through the Menlo Park Mall side-by-side with Jeremy, following Chloe as she leads them to the Forever 21 there. It’s still weird as hell being in the same vicinity as Chloe freakin’ Valentine and not having her be disgusted- or, at the very least, entirely disinterested- by him, but hey, they all need new clothes.

_ Still not trying to be cool, Squippy,  _ Michael says.

**If you call me Squippy again, I’ll uninstall myself,** the SQUIP threatens, then pauses.  **That’s a bad thing.**

Michael snickers, and, when Jeremy looks at him questioningly, he deflects with, “Can we stop by the Cinnabon on the way back? I’m hungry.”

Jeremy shrugs. “Yeah, but you’ll have to pay. I’m gonna be broke after we finish shopping.”

“Ah, shit,” Michael says, “I will be, too.” There’s $1,500 in his bank account for emergencies, technically, and he’s going to be dipping into that at the SQUIP’s behest anyway; he doesn’t want to spend more than he has to.

“What, really? You’ve always got money on you,” Jeremy says. “You’re the richest of any of us, besides Chloe.”

“And don’t forget it,” Chloe pipes up. “I could buy your house from under you, Jeremy.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Jeremy says, and rolls his eyes. “Anyway, Michael, what did you even spend it on? More expensive figurines that you’re not going to take out of their packaging?”

“What, is it give each other shit day today?” Michael asks, trying and failing to not get nervous. If Jeremy were to find out the truth, he would be out $401 and some Red, plus his foolproof plot to be able to empathize with his best friend.

“No, I’m just curious,” Jeremy answers. He makes a move to put his hands in his pockets, but doesn’t. Michael’s stomach sinks. Right- that’s one of the things he was no longer allowed to do. “What’d you spend it all on, anyway?” He glances toward Michael, then away; it’s a certain tell that he’s holding something back, which Michael knows from twelve years of friendship with him. Shit.

“Uh, nothing,” Michael says. The SQUIP gives him a look, and he quickly corrects, “I- I mean, a lot of stuff. But nothing important.”

“By which you mean porno mags, from that tone,” Chloe says, snorting. “C’mon, Mell, it’s not like we’re judging. What’d you buy?”

Michael glances toward the SQUIP, which says,  **Birthday presents.**

“Birthday presents,” Michael lies. “For everyone.”

**Good job.**

Michael would be bathing in the praise usually- he doesn’t get much of it, given that he’s weird and has ADHD, so neither the students nor the teachers really like him- but it sounds odd from the SQUIP. He knows what it’s really capable of, so why isn’t it showing him? 

 

The first time the SQUIP shocks Michael, it’s in the middle of math class. Michael wasn’t listening, and was instead completely engaged in drawing more X-Files doodles in his notebook- it had turned into an obsession somewhere around the third season. Why should he be listening when the SQUIP was programmed to know all the answers? He didn’t pay $400 for nothing.

But then he begins to slouch.

Immediately, a spike of pain travels down Michael’s spine, and he jolts in his seat, alerting the girl next to him- this week, her hair is neon blue- to his plight. She gives him half a glance, then looks back up at the board. Well, that’s the good thing about being seriously inconsequential at school: nobody’s gonna throw a fit if he’s acting a little weird.

_ What the hell was that for?  _ Michael asks, and, if he were speaking aloud, his voice would surely be shaking. Holy  _ shit,  _ that hurt. Not as much as the installation process, sure, but this was on purpose. No authority figure had ever hurt him on purpose before. This was something entirely new, and it was nauseating.

**You were slouching,** the SQUIP explains.

_ Why can’t I slouch? I told you a million times, I’m not trying to be cool. _

**Teachers subconsciously give better grades to students who seem more engaged in class. You are not one of them. You should quit drawing, too, for that matter.**

_ But she lets me,  _ Michael says, looking down at his doodles of Scully’s dog, Queequeg.  _ She said it’s okay. I cleared it with her before the trimester started. _

**Put away the drawings, Michael,** the SQUIP says, Jeff Mangum’s voice skewed by its robotic tones.  **Do you want me to shock you again?**

Michael swallows sharply and turns over a new page in his notebook, banishing the dog.  _ No,  _ he says, quiet even within his head.  _ I don’t want you to shock me again. _

 

But it does. The shocking doesn’t stop. The SQUIP did it again, what it’s programmed to do, what it  _ must  _ have been: became his abuser.

The tenth time it shocks him- there’s a variety of reasons, really; slouching, not raising his hand when he knows the answer to a question, getting said answer wrong, et cetera, et cetera- it’s chemistry, first period. He raises his hand without prompting from the SQUIP when the teacher asks for the chemical formula for copper (I) chlorate. “ Cu(ClO 3 ) **2** , right?”

It comes, of course, in a wave of pain, and Michael taking in a hissing breath through his teeth. He barely hears his teacher say, “Actually, no, that’s incorrect,” hearing blocked by the sheer pain of it.

**It’s CuClO** **3** **, Michael. We talked about this.**

_ Why didn’t you give me the answer, then?  _ Michael demands, but it’s weak; he can barely make a noise inside his own head.

**It was a test,** the SQUIP says,  **and you failed. What would you do without me? For that matter, what did you do** **_before_ ** **me? You were just an idiot in its natural habitat.**

Michael would fiddle with the cord of his headphones to soothe himself, but he finds that his hands are paralyzed. Right- the SQUIP doesn’t like him stimming. He grits his teeth instead, finding that his jaw remains untouched.  _ I’m not an idiot. _

**Your GPA might have something else to say about that.**

_ I just don’t test well!  _ Michael’s chest aches with hurt, but he can’t make a scene here.  _ I have a hard time with homework, too. I have ADHD- _

**You know as well as I do that that doesn’t matter.** The SQUIP’s projection crosses its legs and looks, unimpressed, down at Michael from where it ‘sits’ on the neighboring desk. **Do you think deans of admissions care that you’re good at, what, playing video games? What** ** _are_** **you good at?** **  
** Michael tries to blink away tears, but he finds that there are none. Why isn’t he crying? He’d normally be at least tearing up- thanks, rejection-sensitive dysphoria!- but… oh, great. The SQUIP isn’t even letting him cry.

Instead, he takes a deep, shaking breath, sighs it out, and looks back up at the board.


	4. Chapter 4

Three weeks is enough for Michael. It’s longer than he should’ve had it, and he’s fully aware of that; he shouldn’t have taken it in the first place. This was a dumb fucking idea, but he did it, and now he has to deal with it.

As he settles down for the night, Michael glances at his mini fridge out of the corner of his eye. Truth be told, he’s surprised the SQUIP didn’t make him get rid of it right away. Could he have protected the knowledge so well that the SQUIP couldn’t access the memory? No, it was too important to him- that night at the play is clear as day in the forefront of his brain. Maybe it knew that Jeremy had some, too, so it couldn’t get rid of all of it. Maybe it was just confident that he wouldn’t choose to uninstall it.

**I’m fully aware that you have it,** the SQUIP pipes up.  **I just know I can keep you from using it. You’re not a threat to me, Michael. If anything, it’s the other way around.**

_ Great. Excellent, truly. _

**What, you** **_want_ ** **to get rid of me? You** **_want_ ** **to keep disappointing your mothers?**

Jesus Christ, how did Jeremy live like this? For that matter, how did Rich? Jeremy gets most of his attention, since he’s his best friend and his crush, but Rich had that stupid robot for, like, a year. 

_ No, I don’t,  _ Michael says, faking resignation. If the SQUIP doesn’t believe him, then it says nothing.

 

Another day, another hangout at Jeremy’s house. It had begun to become more like home again, but now, nowhere feels like home. There’s always the threat of a shock or some verbal abuse hanging over his head no matter where Michael goes. 

“Damn, you’ve been really good at this game lately,” Jeremy says as they reach the end of  _ Apocalypse of the Damned II _ ’s fifth level. “Thank God we’re not playing SSB; you’d kick my ass.”

“I’d kick your ass anyway,” Michael says, but there’s no passion in it; the teasing comes out as a flat, useless remark. He shrugs. “Guess I’m just good at video games.”

Jeremy stares at him for a long while, and Michael wilts under his gaze. Normally, he would love to feel those eyes on him, but under the circumstances, it’s less than pleasant. He glances down at his controller, away from Jeremy, but looks back up when he begins to speak. “I need you to be real with me.”

This is it- moment of truth. Jeremy’s going to find out about his stupid shitty plan, and then it’ll all be over. That’s probably a good thing, but he’s ashamed- how could he be this stupid?

**It’s not stupid. Your grades are higher than they’ve ever been. Teachers like you 67% more. Face it, Michael: you’re thriving.**

...He’s being abused.

Michael doesn’t register Jeremy’s words at first, but eventually, he deciphers them: “Did you get a SQUIP? Are you SQUIPped, Michael?”

Michael squeezes his eyes shut and heaves a sigh. “Will you hate me if I say yes?”

“Mike, I can’t think of a single thing you could do to make me hate you,” Jeremy says. “I’m just worried about you, okay? What have you done?”

**Don’t tell him, Michael-**

“I got a SQUIP,” Michael blurts, then takes a shaky breath in. “I got a SQUIP. It was stupid and dumb, so don’t say it, because I know.”

“Why would you do something like that?” Jeremy asks, jumping up from his beanbag. “No, I don’t care, there’s no time for that- I gotta get you some Red. Stay here.” He darts for the stairs, taking them two at a time; Michael watches his back as he leaves. He’d be perfectly content to sit here while Jeremy, his savior, brings him that blessed soda, but-

**Run.**

He loses control.

Adrenaline bursts into Michael’s system, and he bolts; his legs, not his own anymore but the SQUIP’s, carry him to the sliding glass door that leads outside onto the hill Jeremy’s house is situated in. With possessed hands, he unlocks it and bolts out into the warm spring air. Heart thudding in his chest, he runs out into the street.

_ Where are you taking me?  _ he demands from the SQUIP.  _ Why are you doing this? _

**I can’t just let you get rid of me. I’m improving your life, Michael.**

_ By abusing me? Is this what you did to Jeremy, too?  _ Michael’s legs and lungs are already burning; he’s too damn out of shape for this. He doesn’t dislike his body, per se, but he’s painfully aware of how ill equipped for running God knows where it is. 

**If you want to call it abuse, then yes,** the SQUIP says, voice ringing in Michael’s ears.  **But it was for the best. Didn’t you both achieve what you tried to accomplish?**

_ Yes,  _ Michael admits begrudgingly, and frowns as he swerves to avoid an older couple going on a walk. “Sorry,” he says, but they probably don’t hear him; his voice is a whisper. 

**Could you have done it without me? Your grades are getting better every day, and you understand Jeremy better than ever.**

_ Yeah, but at what cost? _

**What cost? Does it matter?**

_ Of course it matters! You’re killing me! I would rather die than live like this!  _ Miraculously, Michael does feel tears forming this time, half out of pain and half out of anger.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been running- ten minutes? Fifteen?- but eventually, Michael reaches a forest filled with towering oaks, and his legs lead him into it. It would be pretty, a place he’d actually like to explore, but again- the circumstances. Leaves, leftover from all the falls that have come before, crackle underfoot, and he would love to stomp around on them for the nice crunches, but the SQUIP is still controlling his body, because why would life cut him a break for free?

_ Are we almost done? You’re going to kill me,  _ Michael says, leaning more towards literalness than figurativeness. 

**I’ll let you go. Hide behind that tree.**

And all at once, Michael’s senses come back to him; his muscles become his own, and, weakly, he scrambles for the aforementioned tree, allowing himself to fall back against its sturdiness and ignoring the way the bark would surely get his hoodie dirty. He takes one deep breath, then another, and swallows; his throat is parched, and he winces at the pain as the muscles work.

After a few minutes of breathing and wishing more than anything else that he had a bottle of water or something, Michael is overtaken by exhaustion, body falling to the forest floor. Under the sunny sky, surrounded by brown, moldy leaves, he sleeps.

 

“Michael? Michael, wake up!”

Michael cracks one eye open as he’s roused from unconsciousness and finds himself face to face with Jeremy, who’s looking at him with more worry than he’s ever seen on his face before. “Jeremy,” he says, voice nigh imperceptible, “you came. You found me.”

“Of course I found you,” Jeremy says, and gathers Michael into his arms, hugging him hard. “Why would I ever not find you?”

Michael sighs and lets himself relax in Jeremy’s arms. “Where the hell am I, anyway? How’d you find me?”

“You’re in Centennial Park,” Jeremy answers. “You ran far, man. We had to use the GPS tracker for your phone to find you- we got your moms’ help.”

Michael swallows and is delighted to find that his throat is no longer aching. “Jeez. Wait, we?” He straightens up again and looks around; sure enough, everyone’s there. “You really brought everyone? You didn’t need to do that.”

“Yeah, I did,” Jeremy says, “because we have to do this. Chloe?”

“On it,” Chloe replies, and digs out a bottle of Mountain Dew Red from the backpack she’s wearing. She approaches Michael and kneels down in front of him, then unscrews the cap on the bottle. “You ready for this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever-”

**You can’t get rid of me that easily, Michael.**

Michael’s muscles stiffen, and he squirms in Jeremy’s arms, try as he might to stop his limbs from flailing. Jeremy holds him back, though, arms wrapped tight around his chest and face tucked into the crook of his neck, and Chloe wrenches Michael’s mouth open with sharp-nailed fingers to stick the lip of the bottle in. “Come on,” she mutters, “come on…”

The flat, artificially sick-sweet taste of the Red is like nectar on Michael’s tongue, and he relishes it for a moment before he remembers what’s going to happen next. There’s a blessed few seconds where he doesn’t feel anything- then, the screaming begins.

The installation process was the most painful thing he’d ever had to deal with, the headache to end all headaches. This trumps even that. It’s as if his brain is primed to explode and implode all at once; it would be less painful to be shot in the head. Michael opens his mouth to swear, but all that comes out is a shriek that echoes through the forest. His throat becomes raw again, and dimly, beneath that, he can make out the sensation of Jeremy rocking him back and forth, not shushing him, just listening to him scream until he blacks out once again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thanks for sticking with me these past couple weeks. All in all, this was a good fic to get me out of my writer's block, so, even if it's not my favorite, I still appreciate it for being a catalyst.  
> Hope y'all enjoy!

The hospital room that Michael wakes up in is blinding white, and he squints up at the black spots on the ceiling tiles for an inch of reprieve. How long has he been out? Days? Weeks? It took Jeremy two weeks to come out of his post-SQUIP coma, and he was worried to death every second. 

When Michael’s eyes become accustomed to the whiteness of his surroundings, he looks around. There’s an IV in his right arm, which he stares at numbly for a few seconds. It doesn’t hurt as much as he would expect; mostly, he just feels the pressure. Still, he refrains from moving that arm, so as not to disturb the cord that runs from his arm to the bag that hangs beside his bed. 

A light snoring sounds from his other side, and he rolls his head to the left to see Jeremy in the seat next to him, head resting on his shoulder as he sleeps. For the first time in who knows how long, a smile spreads across Michael’s face, and he indulges himself in a short glance-over of Jeremy’s features. Any longer might be creepy, but surely a moment isn’t a sin. “Jeremy?” he asks finally, reaching out to place his hand on Jeremy’s knee.

Jeremy starts, jolting awake, but his wide eyes soften when he sees Michael. He puts his hand on Michael’s, grinning, and says, “Michael, you’re awake!”

“Sure am.” Michael clears his throat, grateful beyond belief that his throat isn’t still shredded. “So, how long was I out? Feels like forever.”

Jeremy takes a moment to count on his fingers. “Five days, I think.”

Michael freezes, taken over momentarily by memories of the shocks, the degradation; panicked, he says, “Five days? I must’ve missed so much schoolwork; the SQUIP is gonna… is gonna…” He pauses. “The SQUIP is gone.”

“Yeah, buddy, that’s what the Red is for,” Jeremy says, and, as Michael watches, his eyes begin to fill with tears. He wipes them away with one wrist before any fall. “What were you  _ thinking?  _ Michael, that was insane! You’re the smartest guy I know; why would you do something that stupid?”

Feeling like the biggest dipshit on Earth- and he very well might be- Michael answers, “I just wanted to know how you feel. I didn’t think I could understand if I didn’t get one myself.” It’s the dumbest thing, saying it out loud; why did he think this would ever turn out well? Did he really think it would in the first place? He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fist, then relaxes it. At least he’s allowed to stim now.

“You were still thinking of that?” Jeremy frowns, and he picks up Michael’s hand and threads his fingers through the spaces between his. “Michael, I don’t care that you can’t empathize well. I mean, it’s not great sometimes, but it doesn’t warrant  _ this.”  _ This, of course, being the clusterfuck Michael has put himself in the direct center of.

“Yeah, I guess I am pretty stupid, huh?” Michael sighs, squeezes Jeremy’s hand. “I must’ve been, to get a SQUIP after everything you told me.”

“Don’t say that. You’re the smartest guy I know,” Jeremy repeats. “You just… made a mistake. So did I, and so did Rich. It happens.”

“Yeah, but…” But they didn’t know the risks. This is different. This is… Michael shakes his head, trying his best to dispel the thoughts. “Hm. Y’know, I would ask for a hug, but I think that might take too much out of me.”

Jeremy squeezes Michael’s hand this time, and a smile that tries to be soothing but just looks worried crosses his features. “Would an… um…” His voice falls into a mumble, and Michael can’t make out what he says next.

“Sorry, what?” he asks.

“I said, would a kiss be better?” Jeremy says, and breaks eye contact, opting instead to look down at where his hand is clasped with Michael’s.

Michael’s heart skips a beat, then speeds up. “Wh- a kiss?” Since when does Jeremy like him back? He’d come out as bi about a month after the incident with the SQUIP, but Michael never dreamed that he would ever have feelings for him. 

“Why else would you do this if not out of love?” Jeremy asks. His smile finally makes it from concerned to tender, and he adds, “That is why you did it, isn’t it? Nobody who’s not in love risks their wellbeing like that just to empathize.”

Michael swallows sharply. This is… so much. It’s definitely not the setting he’d like to proclaim his love in, but whatever, fuck it. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, man, I do love you. As more than a friend.”

The smile on Jeremy’s face turns into a face-splitting grin, and Michael mirrors it, chuckling a little. “Dude, that’s great! Why did you not tell me before?”

Michael shrugs. “I don’t know. You were hung up on Christine, and when you weren’t, I just didn’t want to damage our friendship, y’know? You mean too much to me to scare you away.”

Jeremy laughs at that- not a derisive laugh, just a laugh. “How could you ever scare me away?” He blinks, then, and sighs. “Okay, so I admit it probably kinda looked that way-”

“Let’s not talk about this right now, alright?” Michael says. Yes, he’s still hurt by what happened that night- and all of it, really- but that’s not exactly something he’s raring to discuss when a) he’s in a hospital bed, traumatized after being abused by a little brain robot for three weeks, and b) he’s just been told his crush likes him back.

“Oh. Right, sorry,” Jeremy says as he scratches the back of his head.

There’s silence for a few moments before Michael says, “So… about that kiss?”

“Shit, right.” Jeremy doesn’t let go of Michael’s hand as he stands up; in fact, he holds it tighter. He leans over Michael, and, as Michael muses to himself in the moments before the kiss, he sorta looks like an angel, his halo, the fluorescent light above him.

And then Jeremy’s lips are on his.

It’s funny- even though he thinks about it all the time, it’s nothing like he imagined. First of all, Jeremy actually knows how to kiss. That’s not really surprising, given that he had been SQUIPped and thus taught how to kiss- lucky Brooke- but still, Michael had always imagined him to be somewhat of a cold fish. In fact, teaching him how to kiss had been the subject of a few of his fantasies pre-SQUIP. But here he is now, using his free hand to cup Michael’s cheek, and Michael’s pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven. Maybe he died when he took the Red, and now he’s kissing Heaven’s version of Jeremy, and that’s why he knows how to kiss so damn well. More likely, though, he’s just in love.

It seems like an eternity, but it’s probably only ten seconds later that Jeremy breaks the kiss. He comes away blushing, and endearment hits Michael like a bullet in the chest as he observes the redness of his cheeks; how could one guy be so cute? Okay, so maybe he’s a little biased, since they’ve been best friends since kindergarten, but it’s still a valid question.

“What’s with the look?” Jeremy asks, laughter in his voice, as he gazes lovingly down at Michael.

“I don’t know. I just like looking at you,” Michael answers. “You wanna do that again, or are you gonna starve me?”

“Of course I’ll do it again,” Jeremy says, and he does. As far as Michael can tell, he always will.

 

Life post-SQUIP is… not great. In fact, this whole situation is the hardest thing Michael’s ever gone through, what with the verbal abuse and the heightened insecurity about his ADHD and the new sensitivity to thunderstorms because of the way the lightning looks like the scars on his back. But the thing is, as he knows now, as long as he’s got friends- and that includes his scrawny, doofy, wonderful boyfriend- he can do anything he wants. He can recover.

Even when the voices in the back of his head start up- hallucinations, perhaps, or remnants- and even when he takes his shirt off and knows that his scars are bare, and even when all seems hopeless, there’s little he can do but survive. 

So he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I love you!  
> If you like my writing, come hang out with me on my Tumblr, thecicadasong! I'd love to hear from you, and if you post a lot of BMC, I'll probably follow you back. (I'm still obsessed, lol)


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